


Fibonacci Moon

by Khaelis



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaelis/pseuds/Khaelis
Summary: His soulmate was an artist, not a bookworm.She couldn't be the one, could she?





	Fibonacci Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here is a short one-shot based on a soulmate prompt that was along the lines of "your soulmark is a reference to what your soulmate likes the most"!  
> I quite liked the idea, so I wrote this rather quickly!  
> (For someone who didn't like Soulmate AUs, I seem to be doing a lot of them lately, hehe)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this small piece! :-)

* * *

 

 

He had scoured every modern art museum, every ephemeral exhibition throughout the country, combed through thousands of websites about painting, drawing, sculpting, bought hundreds of magazines and books about the subject. No name, no face he had encountered had caused that spark he was desperately looking for.

 

He tossed his ticket in a nearby bin, annoyed and disappointed he hadn’t found her in that tedious expo in a dark corner of London. Listening to a wrinkled man on the verge of falling asleep each time he stopped talking in that monotonous crow had put his patience to the test. Looking at depressing paintings about death and phantasmagorical creatures made by an artist who obviously didn’t know black and grey weren’t the only colours that existed hadn’t helped. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing he hadn’t found her there, actually. He didn’t know what he would feel if his soulmate happened to be a deranged woman fascinated by necromancia and festering cadavers.

 

A liquid shiver rolled down his spine at the thought, and he hurried to take out his list of current exhibitions he needed to go to.

  
  


“Nope to  _ Nighthorses 66 _ , then,” he mumbled under his breath, crossing the name of the exhibition with the pencil he always kept in his pocket. “Next is…  _ S.C.M _ . Just hope this doesn’t stand for super creepy monsters."

  
  


He shoved his quickly shortening list back into his pocket and headed for the nearest underground station. It was already quite late in the afternoon, and he knew he should call it a day, head back home and get a full night of sleep if he didn’t want to doze off over his desk the morning later. But he also knew the disappointment and frustration of not making any progress, the longing he felt to finally find her growing into some kind of unhealthy obsession only predicted long hours spent tossing and turning in his sheets without finding Morpheus’ comforting embrace.

 

He took a quick look at his watch, ignoring the soulmark on his arm as if it’d just been a cheap tattoo he would forever regret, and made his decision. He hopped out of the train a few stations later, didn’t look twice at the large mural on the wall he had learnt a few years back had been painted by a foreign young artist, and made his way up the stairs. He was getting tired to try and see her where she wasn’t. A sticker on lamp post with a cartoonish drawing. Crass tags in back alleys, elaborated frescos on iron curtains. Street traders who sold ridiculously expensive prints of artworks stolen on the Internet. Everywhere he looked, he was tempted to believe it was her, and every time, he was a tad more disillusioned when he found out it wasn’t.

 

His worn chucks squished on the wet pavement as he made his way to one of his favorite places. It was a cramped bookshop in the corner of an ever-deserted street he had discovered the first time he had moved in this part of the city, rather by accident than real intention, and he came back to it every week, some weeks every day. It wasn’t as much the books as the owner that always brought his steps back to that small shop that smelled of yellowed paper and dust. Rose, was her name. A young woman with honey-eyes and wheat-hair, full lips and round nose. He knew she was just his friend, but sometimes, he wished his soulmark could be a small pile of books, or a meaningful quote from her favorite author - not that odd-shaped moon that belonged in a Van Gogh painting. His soulmate was an artist, not a bookworm. Not the woman he had dreamt of so often he believed he must have broken a hundred rules and, though unwillingly, cheated on his real soulmate on several occasions. Not Rose. Never Rose.

 

The small bell chimed when he pushed the ancient door open and the sound of his steps died on the heavy carpet. She was nowhere in sight - probably in the cellar she called a storage room, or in the broom cupboard she called an office. She would eventually pop out, like she usually did whenever the bell rang. His feet took him to the only alley he was interested in, and he picked up an old encyclopedia that had lost a bit of its varnish. He had always wanted to buy this book, but it almost was a relic, and not only did it look like it, it was also worth it. He sifted through random pages, smiling at the centuries-old mathematical formulas and theorems that had long been replaced by more precise, and especially more valid ones.

  
  


“You should buy it before it’s gone.”

  
  


He hurried to slide the heavy book back in its space at the sound of her smiling voice and twirled on his feet to greet her with a smile of his own.

  
  


“Rose, hi, how…” he started before his mouth gaped open and his voice died in his throat.

  
  


He first noticed the dark blue apron she was wearing over her eternal oversized jumper. Then he spotted the pencil she had stuck behind an ear. And he finally understood the multicoloured stains dotting and streaking the apron were  _ paint _ . That wasn’t right. Rose loved books. She was a bookseller. Not an artist. He would know if she were, after so much time spent sharing coffees and pointless conversations. So much time spent wishing she could be the one.

  
  


“Fine, if your question was  _ how are you _ ,” she giggled, wiping her hands on her apron so she could give his shoulder a friendly slap without harming his pinstriped jacket. “How are you?”

“I, uh, yeah, good, I suppose,” he nodded - he found his voice again when he managed to tame his heart hammering against his ribs. “What are you doing with all that equipment?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, John?” she taunted as she motioned for him to follow her through the maze of crammed corridors. “I was about to close, I didn’t think anyone would come so I just started working on a little something. D’you wanna sneak a peek?”

“You never told me you liked painting,” he said, almost reproachful.

“You never asked.”

She led him to the door that was plastered with a large sticker that read storage, offered him a shy smile and pushed the door open with a finger.

 

He couldn’t move. Instead of a dark, small room filled to the brim with rows of old books, he saw a bright, large space void of anything. Anything but paintings, hanging on the walls, haphazardly propped up against the walls. Colours bursting out of the canvas like fireworks, fiery landscapes and smooth still-lives, abstract shapes that made him feel so many things at once his heart flew to his throat, meticulous portraits of people she probably knew given the depth and the familiariaty that oozed from the faces. She was painter. A very talented painter. An artist. Rose was an artist.

  
  


“I wanted to show you the one I’m working on,” she said as she strutted towards her easel that was directed towards the window, unaware he was staring a her as if she’d just turned into one of the monsters he’d seen at the weird exhibition. “I think… You’re the expert, maybe you can tell me if I did it right?”

  
  


He could only nod even though he barely heard her words and watched, speechless and on the verge of collapsing under the weight of the unexpected revelation. Rose was an artist. She turned her easel towards him, and what he saw made his stomach twist into tight and uncomfortable knots.

  
  


“That’s a golden spiral,” he said, running a feverish hand through his spikes of hair. “Logarithmic spiral, it’s… Maths.”

“Yeah, I know,” she smiled, a quivering smile that lacked its usual enthusiasm. “Does it look… Dunno, accurate?”

“Accurate isn’t the first word that came to my mind,” he said softly, taking a few steps towards the painting to let his fingers hover over the snake of yellow and soft orange. “This looks beautiful, Rose.  Why did you paint this?”

“‘Cause I found out…’ she started, sheepishly rocking on the ball of her feet. “What my soulmark is. I didn’t want to know, because I’ve always thought I would meet my soulmate whether I knew or not. But then… I mean, you came along and you made it really hard to resist the temptation.”

“What’s your soulmark, Rose? Please, show me.”

  
  


He held his breath as she slowly rolled her sleeve up her arm, stared at her pale skin covered with lines and lines of tiny numbers from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. He wanted to scream his joy, cry his relief, he wanted to hug her and kiss her and let his whole body and soul finally love her. But he simply blinked and swallowed it all down. She had never told him about her mark. She had never wanted him to know, and she probably had a hundred good reasons not to tell him.

  
  


“That’s the Fibonacci sequence,” he told her, unconsciously tugging on his own sleeve to make sure she wouldn’t see his mark. “It’s… My favorite sequence, actually.”

“I know,” she shrugged with an embarrassed twist of her lips. “I mean, I figured. You’ve bought several books about that sequence from me, you know. Doctor Smith, clever scientist and mathematician and all.”

  
  


He noticed the dejection in her voice, the way she gently kicked the foot of her easel and lowered her eyes to the carpet. He was hurt, deep and violent, that she didn’t seem to want any of what he had to offer, but that didn’t make him any less indifferent to her own pain. He slipped a finger under her chin to catch her eyes and give her a gentle look she didn’t want.

  
  


“Talk to me, Rose,” he said softly, fully cupping her cheek when she started to bow her head again. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I know you’ve got a bit of  _ Starry Night _ on your arm,” she answered with a sharp nibble on her lip. “I know that… You would have found out I like painting, sooner or later.”

“Why wait until now, then?” he asked, befuddled by the tears that started to roll down her cheeks. “Rose, I don’t understand, what’s wrong?”

“Look at me, John,” she sighed, swatting his hand away from her face. “Look at me and tell me I’m the soulmate you’ve always wanted. Tell me I was made for you. Tell me you can ever love me. I don’t want you to think I’m the one is all. There has to be someone else for you, John.”

  
  


They matched. He didn’t understand why she refused to see it, refused to believe it, refused to accept she could be his soulmate. They matched. That was all he understood. Her mark was a mathematical sequence. His mark was actually borrowed from a Van Gogh painting. They matched. And he had fallen for that woman so long ago. To know he had already learnt everything he loved about her, to know she was the one. That left no room for tears or unhappiness.

 

Despite her protests, he cupped both her cheeks again and hurried to press a soft, lingering kiss on her lips before she could draw back. Rose was an artist. Rose was the one.

  
  


“You’re the one I’ve always wanted,” he whispered, catching her lips between his again to steal her answer. “You were made for me, like I was made for you.”

“John…” she tried to complain, though she was slowly melting into his arms, little by little, a little more each time his hot breath caressed her chin and his lips danced against her own. “I’m not…”

“There’s no one else for me. You, just you. God, why did you have to wait so long, Rose, we’ve lost so much time. All that time spent looking for you when I had already found you. All that time spent pretending I didn’t love you when I could have shown you how much I do. “

“You do?” she breathed out, pulling away to see that truth in his eyes. 

  
  


He only sat on her stool and pulled her sitting over his lap, his mouth hungrily looking for those lips he wanted to devour, his chest pressing hard against that body he wanted to touch, his heart reaching out for that shared loved he wanted to drown into. Rose wasn’t just an artist. She was his soulmate.

 

* * *

 


End file.
